by Nancy Bush
"Is there a cafeteria?"
The nurse eyed Ruth impatiently. "First floor. All the way down the hall to your right. But you’d be better off waiting at home."
George touched Ruth’s arm and they headed toward the elevator. I didn’t immediately leave as the coward in me didn’t want to struggle with more small talk. I wondered what Cotton was planning to tell them.
"You’re not seeing him, either," Nurse Ratched told me in a singsong voice. She made little walking motions with her index and middle fingers.
I had no intention of bothering Cotton any further, but she was really getting under my skin. I seriously thought about giving her some finger language of my own. Instead I looked at my watch and said, "Time for my assault weapon class," and headed for the elevators.
On the way home I stopped in at Mook’s Ice Creamery, a local ice cream parlor and burger joint, and ordered a Burger-Jack, the usual hamburger with avocado and jack cheese. I can tolerate a certain amount of dairy products per day, but the cheese would be my limit. If I wanted ice cream I was going to have to buy some of those lactaid-type pills and personally I find medication just too much trouble sometimes.
I powered through my burger, feeling both sorry for myself and a little bit smug. I was sorry that I now had a moral dilemma of sorts. Basically Cotton had pointed the finger at Tess and blamed her for aiding and abetting her son, a suspected murderer. It was hearsay, as far as I could tell, but the authorities don’t give a damn about that. They want information, period. It’s up to the lawyers to decide what matters and what doesn’t in a criminal case. So, what did that mean about my obligations?
But I was feeling smug because of that very same thing: I had information that others would die for. I could picture the slavering reporters climbing all over one another for the tidbits Cotton had thrown my way. If I wanted to be a minor celebrity, this was my chance.
Then again, Tess had been my client, of sorts, and she still believed we were in business together, no matter what I had told Tomas Lopez. Should I call Lopez? His card was still on my television set.
And why did the idea of telling him make me feel like such a rat?
Because I have a basic distrust of authority. Anyone with the right to tell me what to do just kind of pisses me off. Nurse Ratched, a case in point.
My cell phone started singing. I glanced at the LCD. Murphy. "Damn."
"You went to see Cotton," he said in disbelief as soon as I answered.
"I know you said you wanted to go, but-"
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice rose. "He’s sick! And this whole situation is a goddamn circus. All the reporters and police."
"You told me he wanted to see me," I reminded him hotly. "It wasn’t the other way around."
"The guy’s on his deathbed."
"I don’t think I’m the bad guy here!" My own voice started sliding upward.
"I just want to-keep things sane."
"Well, Laura’s family was in the hallway, waiting for a chance to talk to him. Nurse Ratched threw me out, but he was okay when I left him."
"Laura’s family?"
"Yeah, George and Ruth. Nice people. Cotton had something he wanted to tell them."
"About Bobby?" Murphy was stunned.
". . . About forgiveness, I think," I said, struggling a bit. "Cotton was practically confessing to me that he’d helped Bobby, or that Tess had, or that they both had. I can believe he wants to apologize to the Monroes. I don’t know if they’ve ever really talked. Why would they?"
"They were in the hall?"
"They’re probably in the cafeteria now. Why? Do you want to see them? They remember you."
"Shit..." He sounded suddenly exhausted.
"Seeing them just makes it all so real," I said.
"It is real. And Jane, it feels like you’re trying to prove something at Cotton’s expense."
"What do you mean?" His words wounded me in a way I couldn’t immediately define.
"Just...leave it alone."
I was infuriated. "You told me to go see him," I repeated. I’d be damned if I was going to apologize for doing what he’d told me to do.
"I know, but Cotton’s too sick. Heather’s on her way to see him."
"Good luck getting past the watchdog."
"She’s family."
I didn’t want to argue with him further. None of this was my fault and I was good and mad that Murphy was acting like it was. I knew he was feeling the strain, but I didn’t like being anybody’s scapegoat, no matter what. We hung up in a kind of combative silence. Santa Fe was looking farther and farther away.
I returned home to Binkster who acted as if I were starving her. By her shape, it was pretty clear this was not the case, but I jiggled some doggie kibbles into her bowl and watched her ravenously chomp through them at record pace. I retrieved the bowl before she could make it hop around and gouge my cabinets some more. I probably should tell Ogilvy about the dog’s mishap, but I didn’t want to get into the fact that I had a pet. I’m sure a new deposit would be slapped on me. Hey, I’d paid the guy my August rent. Maybe I’d bring it up in September.
***
I spent the rest of the week either debating on what to do or process serving. No serious incidents to report other than my car got keyed. I looked at the mean, little stripe waving along the driver’s door and gritted my teeth. I hadn’t stopped by Dwayne’s for more work because I’d been on the fence about the whole damn job. However, I was about ready to chuck this supposed occupation once and for all.
On Friday I put a call into Tess who didn’t pick up. This was about the third time I’d phoned, so I called Marta next, and was delayed by the snotty receptionist just long enough to make me want to rip my hair out. When Marta finally came on the line, she was abrupt, "I haven’t talked to Tess in days. I can’t reach her. You know where she is?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing. You think she’s missing?"
"She’s trying to avoid the press." Marta sounded annoyed.
Or maybe the authorities?
I told Marta I’d let her know if I talked to Tess. With time on my hands I decided to check in with Dwayne. Might as well see what he had for me. I left Binks with fresh water and more kibbles that she scarfed down in a snorting rush.
I put on my newly washed black capris, a dark green tank top and my chewed Nikes, then snapped my hair into its ubiquitous ponytail. I didn’t know what Dwayne had in store for me but I was going to try to be ready for anything.
Knocking on his front door, I glanced casually at his landscaping. The roadside of the cabana was basically a cement drive surrounded by gravel for extra parking and a strip of earth as dry and bare as a bone. Possibly Dwayne was planning on planting something, but he struck me more as the hammer, nails and wood type rather than a landscaper. In that we were sympatico.
The door flew open and I beheld a nymphet. She was about fourteen with no hips to speak of, a set of budding breasts worn behind an extremely sheer tank top and a pair of teensy, weensy little denim cutoffs that tapered to skinny legs. Her hair was streaky blond, her eyes blue and rimmed with smoky eyeshadow and thick, black mascara, and the scowl on her face could have turned Medusa to stone.
"Uh-huh?" she greeted me, as if I were hugely intruding on her space. I caught the scent of her perfume and realized I’d just met Dwayne’s mystery woman.
Either he was a sexual pervert/predator or there was more to the story. Remembering his amusement when I’d demanded to know who his houseguest was, I wondered what the connection was. "Is Dwayne here?"
"No." She folded her arms under her breasts and looked up at me sulkily. She was throwing out all the sexual signals she could think of. The result of too much television, R-rated movies and suggestive magazines, I was sure. She made me instantly tired.
I’m not the most patient person on earth. Through smiling teeth, I asked, "Do you know where he is, and when he’ll be back?"
"How do you know him?" she de
manded.
"He’s a friend."
"Yeah?" A wealth of meaning there.
"Yeah."
I wanted to wring her little neck. It was all I could do not to react to her insolence in the way she probably expected. Instead I simply reminded myself that in a couple of years her hips would grow, her face might break out, her thighs would thicken, and cellulite would find her. She would realize that the junior-high body was a lie.
"Do you mind if I come in and wait?" I asked, then practically shouldered her out of the way.
"Do you work out?" she asked.
Was this a good question, or a bad question? "Why?"
"Your ass is pretty good for someone your age."
Ass. Gee, how sweet. "Thanks."
"Oh," she said, her face lighting with realization. "You’re the one Uncle Dwayne was telling me about. You like work with him, or something." I nodded an acknowledgment. "Do you work on cases and stuff ? Like . . ." She screwed up her face in concentration. "Murders and suicides and terrorists?"
"Did Uncle Dwayne say where he was going?"
"Oh, just to the store. We’re out of nutrition bars. Everything in his refrigerator is gross." She shuddered.
On this I might have agreed. I suspected the inside of Dwayne’s refrigerator was scarier than my own, for different reasons. "How long are you visiting here?" I asked, pretending I knew more than I did.
"Oh, God, I was in this stupid acting class this summer. My mom thought it would be so great, but I want to go to Hollywood. These stupid little theater classes are just dumb. Two weeks and all we did was act like morons with these dumb acting games. And then we put on this dumb show. I’m leaving tomorrow."
"Where to?"
"Home. Seattle."
My heart sank. Seattle wasn’t near far enough away. Three to four hours depending on how seriously you broke the speed limit on I-5. "It was nice of Uncle Dwayne to have you stay with him."
"Yeah ...well... his boat’s really crappy." She lifted a shoulder dismissively toward the back of the house. I could see the tail end of his red and white boat through the opened sliding glass door. "I like those Master Crafts," she said. "With the skiing tower. I want to wake-board. The tower gives you a better angle for jumping over the wakes." Her face clouded. "But Seattle’s crappy, too. It’s shitty weather there practically all the time. Do you know we have one of the highest suicide rates in the country? How long have you been doing this?"
"Working with Dwayne?" I guessed.
"Uh-huh."
"Just getting started."
"Do you like him?" She eyed me closely. "Do you think he’s sexy? I think he’s sexy. I mean he’s my uncle and lots older and stuff, but I could see where someone your age would think he’s sexy."
It was all I could do not to point out that thirty wasn’t exactly geriatric. "He’s got a nice ass," I responded.
"Y’think? I’m not sure there’s enough of it. I like a little more than that flat cowboy thing."
I was trying to think of a comeback for this when I heard Dwayne’s truck rattle into the carport. My little friend skipped toward the door, greeting him with a bright smile and a little swish of her hips. I was gratified to see he barely noticed her. "Oh, so you met Tracy," Dwayne said, hauling a couple bags of groceries inside. I could see he was trying not to break out into a big hardy, har, har. He really felt he’d pulled one over on me.
"We’ve been discussing your ass," I said. "Oh, yeah?" Dwayne looked surprised, then half-twisted around as if to get a look at it. "It’s the cutest!" Tracy gushed. She made a point of not meeting my eyes.
I wasn’t exactly sure what Tracy’s game was, but I was getting that radar that said: Alert! Alert! Manipulative female on the premises. There are two kinds of females in my book: the good and the bad. The good are normal, self-aware and I could spend hours in their company. The bad are screwed up, full of insecurity and a really lethal self-doubt that makes them machines of destruction, both to themselves and others. A few moments with the latter and I’m ready to consider a gender change.
It was a bitch that she was Dwayne’s niece. She was high-powered trouble. Tracy started babbling to Dwayne about all the things important to her. I realized she was about to start high school and she seemed to think she had some say about where that might be, Seattle or... someplace else. I fervently hoped Lake Chinook wasn’t on her list. If so, it would be hasta la vista baby to me working for Dwayne. I could see Dwayne tune out. A veil seemed to drop over his eyes.
"What’s so funny?" he suddenly asked me.
I wiped the satisfied smile from my face. You can’t whine to a man-any man, unless maybe a gay man because he at least understands-about another female, especially if she’s related to him, because it’ll boomerang back on you. They don’t get it. They either don’t want to, or they can’t. I said earnestly, "I want to talk to you about the Reynolds case."
"What case? Didn’t you get paid in full?"
"Yeah. But it’s... not over."
"The fat lady’s sung, Jane."
I really, really, really didn’t want to talk about this in front of Tracy. Though she was pretending hard not to listen, she had that tense, avid body language that said she was soaking in every syllable. Luckily, Dwayne seemed to realize this and said, "What time do you have to be back after lunch?"
"I’m not going back. That class is stupid."
"You’re going back, darlin’," he said with quiet authority. "It’s your last day. Your mom’s coming for the performance."
"Performance," she sneered. "We stand around acting like morons. Making noises and jumping around."
"What time?"
"I’m not going Uncle Dwayne! What? Are you deaf ?"
Now, Dwayne rarely gets angry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be more than mildly irritated. But I could see his temper rise. Though he looked the same, there was a quiet menace building inside him that I wanted to cheer for.
"I’m not going," she said, settling into a whine. "Don’t make me," she added tearily.
"I’ll drive you," he said, and opened the door for her to step outside and get in his truck.
Tracy thought about defying him. Her body was rigid with fury. My being there wasn’t helping the situation, though I have to admit I was enjoying myself thoroughly. If I’d had a beer and some jalapeno chips, I’d be settling down for a damn good time. Who cared about her upcoming performance? This one was four-star.
She flounced out toward Dwayne’s truck.
"Nice girl," I said.
"She’s a goddamn pain in the ass, and you don’t know the half of it." He shook his head as if to rid himself of scary parental-type thoughts and said, "I’ve got a little thing I want you to do for me."
"A little thing."
"When I come back I’ll tell ya all about it. What about the Reynolds gig? You wrapped that up?"
Though I’d managed to keep from blurting out my unsupported theories, I’d told Dwayne about my interview with Cotton and all he’d intimated about Tess and himself and their involvement with Bobby. Dwayne had been noncommital. In fact, at the time I’d wondered if he’d been even listening. Now, I saw what his distraction had been and she was currently in his pickup, leaning on the horn.
"Fuck," he said succinctly, heading outside. I heard his truck thrash to a start and grind gears up the road. Lake Chinook’s community center, the Chinook Center for the Performing Arts, (which is lofty in name only) is only a stone’s throw from his cabana, so I decided to step onto his newly sealed dock and enjoy a few moments to myself.
I turned my face into a hot little breeze. At least here on the water it wasn’t as beastly as it was a few blocks inland. I could use a beer. Or a glass of wine, the glass so chilled it was sweating.
My cell phone broke into my thoughts. It was Murphy. "Cotton died at two o’clock this afternoon," was his terse report.
Chapter Fourteen
Dwayne returned from dropping Tracy at her class but I couldn’t h
ear anything he had to say. Since Murphy’s call, my ears were blocked. I could only hear my heartbeat and I was faintly conscious of the sun’s heat on my exposed skin.
Dwayne gave me a hard look in the eyes, then hauled me from the dock to his couch where he plopped me down with rather more force than necessary, I felt. Through a distorted lens I watched him slip off my sandals and when he handed me a tumbler with a half-inch of amber liquid swirling in the bottom, I shook my head. He insisted, holding the glass to my lips. I complied, feeling the liquor’s scorch all the way down my throat. Sputtering and gasping, I came half out of the chair. Jesus. People drink this stuff for entertainment?
Dwayne’s voice returned. "What happened?" he demanded tersely.
I cleared my throat. "Cotton . . . died."
"Drink some more."
"No."
"Drink it all."
I felt a moment of rebellion, but the look in Dwayne’s eyes said he was ready for battle. Grudgingly I took another swallow. Tears burned my eyes and the bourbon flamed all the way down to my stomach. Dwayne’s piercing examination of me was unnerving. "Stop looking at me," I ordered.
He shook his head. "You got to get a lot tougher."
"I’ve got to get tougher? Bobby’s dead, and now Cotton’s dead. I think I deserve an emotional moment."
"You told me Cotton was in the hospital and that he made some half-hearted deathbed confession to you."
"Yeah. So?" I was being stubborn but I didn’t care.
"You thought he was pretty sick . . . that he might not make it."
"I know that, but it’s still a big shock."
"I don’t see why," he said maddeningly.
I wanted to retaliate with "you wouldn’t" but decided things would only deteriorate from there. "Being sick doesn’t mean you’re at death’s door."
Luckily, Dwayne didn’t point out I was arguing against everything I’d already said. "You’re getting some color back," he observed.
I did feel better. The medicinal properties of 80 proof. "I’ve got to talk to Tess," I said. I rose from the chair but my legs were rubbery. Dwayne put a finger at my sternum and gave a teensy push. I sank back as if made of wax. Annoyed, I glared at him.
